


mountain laurel honey

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars Legends: Darth Plagueis - James Luceno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 19:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "you wonder if it would have been better to hate him. To look at Tom from the first and know that there was evil hiding behind a pretty mask; that the kindness was nothing butpoisoned honey. Harry talks about Dumbledore’s surety, born of the first moment meeting that sad, maniacal orphan, and you almost envy him."A life-changing little kiss that looks like a sinister promise, yet more lurks behind...





	mountain laurel honey

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [(thoughts on Tom Riddle and Ginny Weasley)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/518468) by notbecauseofvictories. 

> the quote in the summary is from the inspiring work.
> 
> the honey made from mountain laurel blooms is, in fact, poisonous.

It is patently absurd that you should pull down Plagueis by the facing at the neck of the robe, and kiss.

But there is metal in your blood and Damask's, and metal that succumbs to magnets just as you have fallen, stumbled into this, like bees to flowers, like rutting stags unto first blood and shattered antlers and the hunt. 

Alteration in a kiss, alteration in the coiling of heartstrings around an iron core, a solenoid resisting the remaking and domains that snap to attention and--soft and wanting and untouched, pull into their own form of demand.

Things that are and things that _seem_ and aether carrying what might as well be magic all around, a weft you together twist up and down or round until it is a fabric only moderately different. Yet a different texture all the same.

* * *

The galaxy is what you _make of it_, but interactions move forwards, not backwards and you cannot erase the ghost of that stolen brush of lips, a thing caught between the domains of the tender affections of innocent cats and that of rapacious men. 

Men are not, properly, ensnared by such girls as you, save however they invert the dynamic of power in some invented centripetal fiction. 

Damask is... unbound, not ensnared, nor much changed, but _every push a pull_ is altered too all the same.

His is not--not for the reason that he is old and Muun and male and you are young, human and judged female--your nature, even though the blood in his three hearts runs red as yours in atmosphere; it was Cosinga's alchemy of power that made you tractable, stubborn, oxidizing iron to be set ever more, and not straightforward, current-welcoming copper with the beautiful tarnish of verdigris.

Yes, copper, not gold--he is not so rare nor so noble, and certainly neither are you, base and vital.

But that subtle and definitive declaration of affection set your poles, your compass, to his inclinations.

* * *

Hemoglobulin is not a graph of your natures; it simply is as it is, a relationship that allows internal burning for human activity, passion and power and the same material as chains literal and societal. Blood binds you no closer to Cosinga than does mere nationality, you swear it. But Damask favours the symmetry, the other, Forceful, things held in the vascular system, and does the opposite of shy away from monthly bleeding.

In that light, the once kiss seems almost and bizarrely incestuous, save for the fact that affections vary widely in nature, and it is not unheard of that such should be seemly were you and you alone, through your own self, to make of him a father. 

Give him then, if you twist the words, properly to priesthood, a supplicant at the alter of science now with an acolyte behind him (you)...


End file.
